


Honey, Don't Feed Me: I Will Come Back

by lanyon



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, References to Moby Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:24:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is presented with a choice, he thinks: either to accept his future, come what may, or alter it, through fairly foul means.</p><p>
  <i>“Bucky,” says Rogers, those blue eyes so wide as to be mesmerising. No one shows such vulnerability to you, who is not a victim. “Is it hurting?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey, Don't Feed Me: I Will Come Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IttyBittyManatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IttyBittyManatee/gifts).



You’ll miss it when it’s gone, they say; you’ll miss your childhood, your lover, your youth, your beauty.

You’ll miss your memories except, when memories fade, the missing of them fades too.

.

The Winter Soldier is unfamiliar with hope. Your life experiences, for a given definition of life, have never been aspirational. 

Meanwhile, Rogers is the personification of hope. He walks into the room and holds his breath, that big broad chest quivering before the exhale. He breathes out his hope, gone like air, invisible too.

It is the Winter Soldier’s failing that Rogers cannot hold on to hope. It is your failing.

 _I knew him_ does not mean that the Winter Soldier is suddenly awash with memories. You are like a broken-down buoy, clanging discordantly in the East River, cautioning anyone who comes too near. _Abandon hope_. You hear that, Rogers?

You are a broken-down boy. 

The human body is symmetrical, for a given definition of human. Two eyes, two ears, two nostrils. If you look in the mirror from a certain angle, you have two arms with bone, and tendons, and soft connective tissue and arteries. You know how long it takes to bleed out through a severed ulnar artery. It is not quick.

If you look in the mirror from a certain angle, you have two arms that are metal and whir comfortably and comfortingly and distantly inhuman. No wonder Stark doesn’t mind having you around. 

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall_ , who is—?

You close your eyes, dimly aware of an orange glow in the periphery of your vision. 

You wish—

.

“I am James Buchanan Barnes,” you tell the mirror. 

“Hi,” you say. “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

It is a skin you wear. It bleeds, sluggish like a graze.

“Hello,” you say. “I’m Sergeant Barnes. I’m a real live boy.”

It’s cute that you think that, says an intrusive voice, that may or may not be yours. 

The strangled laugh is assuredly yours. 

.

“Hi,” you say. “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

Later, you will analyse why you feel so guilty when Rogers’ face lights up. For now, it is enough to treat this like any mission.

This is your cover. You are James Buchanan Barnes, a Sergeant in the US Army. You were a hero but you are long past your expiry date. 

“So the good Captain says,” says Stark. This is the first time you’ve met him, though you’ve been confined to quarters in his Manhattan building for three weeks. “Let me take a look. One careful lady owner, am I right?”

“Don’t,” says Rogers. He sounds tired. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, Stark—”

“When have you ever known me to take anything seriously, Cap?” 

It’s interesting, how different Rogers is when Stark is in the room. It’s interesting. You had thought that Rogers was incapable of anything other than forced good humour and optimism. You remind yourself that you do not know Rogers, not really.

Oh, you knew him. You knew him enough that it jolted you, like a jolt of electricity or ice through your veins. It was like a backhand from the Secretary and no kinder. 

No one seems to accept that the miracle is not in the knowing but in the realisation of knowing.

“I’m going to need that arm,” says Stark. You are in no position to argue, although Rogers tries, on your behalf. 

“JARVIS ran diagnostics as soon as your sidekick was within range. It’s got to be killing him. Uh. Figuratively. Probably not literally.”

“Bucky,” says Rogers, those blue eyes so wide as to be mesmerising. No one shows such vulnerability to you, who is not a victim. “Is it hurting?”

You frown. 

“Report,” says Stark and it is a direct order.

You speak. You have no choice. It is a direct order. “There is a lag of point nine seconds from intent to execution. NRS-11 is seven. Functionality is at sixty-seven per cent, where functionality is the ability to incapacitate an unarmed hostile. Strength is-”

“Bucky, stop,” says Rogers. His expression is horrified. You stop. “Stark, what did you do to him?”

“You got this, JARVIS?”

 _Yes, sir_. 

“Stand down, Olaf.” 

You don’t know who Olaf is but it is evident that Stark is referring to you. You relax, a little, because it is a direct order. Rogers raises a shaky hand and swipes it down, over his face. At a conservative estimate, Rogers is operating at eighty-seven per cent functionality, where functionality is the ability to smile and breathe out hope.

You wish—

What’s that, Sergeant? asks a voice, that is probably not your own. 

.

Wanting is as foreign as hoping. 

If a need does not exist within mission parameters, it does not exist. 

If mission parameters do not exist—

Sitting beside the bathtub in Rogers’ residence is a dog-eared copy of _Moby Dick_ , corners furling in the damp. The spine is broken. You sit in the empty tub and open it. 

_Call me Ishmael_ —

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Yes, says a voice that is not yours. If you say it often enough it might become true.

.

Stark removes your arm. You are given a general anaesthetic and everything is orange light. 

If wishes were horses, your stables would be empty. 

“ _There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own._ ” 

When you come to, your head is buzzing and you are in pain. NRS-11 is at about three thousand. See, you are a master of hyperbole.

“Give him something for the pain,” says Rogers because, of course, he is nearby. Of course. You reach for him to calm him down but, right. No left arm. Your right arm is laden down with: an arc line (radial aspect of the wrist), two IV lines (dorsum of hand and antecubital fossa) and a deflated sphygmomanometer cuff. Oh, and a handcuff, attaching you to the rail of the hospital bed. 

Seems fair.

“‘s interesting,” you say, your words distant and indistinct.

“What’s interesting, Buck?” Rogers keeps shortening your name. In a week, you’ll be Buh or B—. You giggle.

“The light,” you say. “‘s not orange. ‘s all yellow.” 

“We got a Coldplay fan here, Cap?” asks Stark. “‘Cause I’m taking Gwyneth’s side in that divorce.”

You’re not funny, Stark. “You’re not funny, Stark.”

“C’mon, Cap. Consciously uncouple yourself from Grassy Knoll over here. There are developments.”

Rogers sets down the paperback he was reading. It’s _Moby Dick_. He better not have lost your place.

.

Stark must mistake voluntary silence for stupidity. You allow him to fill the quiet. He is rendering a new arm for you or, rather, his AI is. 

“Same design?”

“Yes,” you say. The red star means no more to you than countries do. 

“There are some people that would say Cap’s barking up the wrong tree, with you,” Stark says.

“By ‘some people’, you mean you, right, Stark?” Right, Stark. 

“Yeah, I’ll bite.” Stark doesn’t actually bite. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust that you have his best interests at heart.”

“And you do?” You read about Ultron but you stayed out of that clusterfuck. You know that Stark has a new obsession now, thanks to the Scarlet Witch and any number of miracles and inhumans. Tony Stark wants to prove magic wrong.

“Everyone knows I only have my own interests at heart,” says Stark. “I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

Except you know that he is lying. Potts, Virginia, born in 1972. Hogan, Harold, born in 1967. Rhodes, James, born in 1974. Pretending not to care does not eradicate their value as targets. 

Not that you would, of course. You are a changed man. You are a man without a mission. You are not even an asset. 

You are James Buchanan Barnes, or so Rogers’ wide, pleading eyes would have you believe. 

You have a secret. It is a little germ of a secret. It flourishes in the dark. You have a memory and you earned it yourself, lying flat on your back and strapped to a gurney and Rogers’ wide, pleading eyes filled your field of vision. It was a rescue, against all the odds, and you have come to understand that that is how Rogers operates. 

.

“ _Thou saw'st the locked lovers when leaping from their flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true to each other, when heaven seemed false to them._ ”

Rogers sighs. “I don’t even like this book.”

“Then why are you reading it?”

.

“I am James Buchanan Barnes,” you tell your reflection. Your reflection looks back sombrely. You shrug. Your reflection shrugs. Your new arm is functional to a value of ninety-nine point nine per cent, where functionality is a measure of holding a straight-edged razor to shave. 

There are so many means to kill yourself when you live in a building so high and electric, but this is Rogers’ trust in you. He trusts you are at least curious enough to survive a while longer. 

The lights flicker and dim. The bathroom is flooded with orange light.

Do you want to be James Buchanan Barnes? asks a voice, not your own.

Of course you do. That is a stupid question, by any measure of stupidity. If you were James Buchanan Barnes, Rogers would stop haemorrhaging hope and you—

You would be a real live boy, says the voice that is not your own. 

.

You see Romanov once. She looks at you with that cool, assessing gaze. 

Look, you have found another memory. Inexpertly applied red lipstick and rumpled sheets and smooth skin. Something stirs with the memory. _Oh._

She shakes her head and purses her lips. Rogers is watching you both as though this is a tennis match and you are losing to love.

“I told you, Steve,” she says. “Hard to rebuild relationships with a guy who shoots you.”

“I shot Rogers three times,” you say. You punched him a heck of a lot, too. 

“He must really like you,” says Romanov. Her lips twitch slightly. She is not talking to you. Finally, she turns to Rogers. “Thor isn’t happy, you know. Stark needs to not have it when Loki comes calling.” 

She’s not talking about you. 

.

Rogers watches you. 

You have started to watch back. He goes pink when your eyes meet his. It is interesting. It is. _Oh_ —

“It’s okay, Bucky,” he says, after a while. “If you don’t remember.” 

He means it, is the wondrous thing. 

“I’d like you to be happy, though.”

Ha, there it is. Rogers’ hope; his cup runneth over. You don’t want to know what happens when Rogers is running on empty. 

You smile at him. You are not in the habit of smiling. “You drive a hard bargain, Rogers.”

Rogers, strangely, looks pleased.

.

Are you the whale or Captain Ahab? Are you Ishmael or are you Queequeg in your coffin, your ghost keeping another man afloat?

.

You wake up to the sound of shouting. There are strange men in the building. Not all human, and not in the way that you are not all-human. You flutter your fingers and they whir. 

“Give it to Namor, Stark.” 

“Forgive me for not wanting to give it to the strange, scantily-clad— seriously, Cap. Your taste in men—” 

“I’m not a man, Mr Stark. Not a human man, anyway. The stone isn’t yours.”

“You know— you know that dear old Dad had the Tesseract a while. He wasn’t even interested in it. Too busy looking for you, Cap.”

“Then maybe take a leaf out of his book. This is too much, even for Iron Man.” 

You lean against the wall, around the corner from this baffling conversation. You close your eyes. 

Everything is orange. The voice that is not your own speaks with an urgency that is new.

Don’t you want to be James Buchanan Barnes?

“Yes,” you say. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

Then wish it and I will bring you there.

“But I’m here,” you say. “I’m here.”

I can bring you back. The voice is desperate now. I can bring you back to the time when you were James Buchanan Barnes.

It sounds improbable. It sounds too easy. What would Rogers do?

The voice must come from someone with a throat, with lungs, with the capacity to exhale angrily.

.

You open your eyes. 

“Get a move on, Sergeant. We’re moving out. We’ll be eating bratwurst in Berlin by supper-time.” 

“Can it, Falsworth. C’mon, Barnes. It’s time to go.”

.

You open your eyes.

“Go back to sleep, B’ky, s’early.” 

.

You open your eyes. 

You watch as he wriggles into those goddamned ridiculous tights, hopping around the room with all the grace of an elephant in stilettos.

.

You open your eyes. 

There is a heavy arm around your middle and you know without looking that that’s Steve’s broad chest pressed up against your back.

“Go back to sleep. It’s hours before the train.”

.

You open your eyes with an _oof_.

“It’s Christmas, Jimmy, it’s Christmas!” Becca and Beth jump up and down on your bed and on your belly and _ffff—_

“That’s a nickel for the swear jar, James!”

.

You open your eyes.

“No,” you say, with certainty and an ache that’s years deep.

Don’t you want to be James Buchanan Barnes? asks the voice that is not yours. 

“Of course I do,” you say. The voice is asking the wrong question. “But I want to do it my way.”

And if your way and Rogers’ way happen to converge, if you fall into step with him along the path, so much the better. 

The orange light recedes. 

“Thanks for the memories,” you say. Sense of humour one, orange light zero. Shame there’s no one around to appreciate your wit, apart from a trickster god who needs more time.

.

“I guess,” says Stark, grudgingly. “It’s safer in a city that doesn’t exist.”

“It’s not sentient,” says Thor. “But it knows it, too. Loki can’t control the stone directly but he can control the minds of— well. Weaker men.”

Stark glances at you. “We have no weak people here.”

You nod. 

He smiles. “How’s the arm, Buckaroo?”

You give him the middle finger. “Functionality, ninety-nine point nine per cent.”

Stark snorts. “Better a sober cannibal, et cetera—”

.

The orange light is gone and in its place is something else. 

The Winter Soldier has no need for hope but you do. By god, you do.

You are James Buchanan Barnes. 

You curl forward over the kitchen table and the door behind you opens, bathing you in wintry sunlight. 

“Hey,” says Rogers, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Hey, Buck. You wanna go out today?”

It turns out that you do. It turns out that your path and Rogers’ path have already converged, for better or worse; it turns out that they may have converged ninety years ago. There may be a paving stone loose, or a cracked slab or two. You will assuredly stumble in the pursuit of his perfection but —

You are James Buchanan Barnes and you are human enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired completely and utterly by **IttyBittyManatee**.  
>  Big thanks to **beardsley** for the support.  
>  Title from **Hozier** 's _It Will Come Back_.  
>  This is likely to be my one and only foray into writing in the second person; call it experimental, if you like.  
> Of note, the orange Infinity Gem controls time.


End file.
